Stone Lion
by Feather-of-Maat
Summary: A look at the relationship between Vanora and Lancelot, from Vanora's point of view. Not meant to be shippy, although I suppose it could be interpreted that way.


The bright, warm sunshine is to my children what ale is to their father: they simply can't get enough of it. Truth be told, it didn't take much to persuade me to let them play outside today, the weather being unusually cheerful. They need the exercise, Bors claims, so that they can grow up to be unbeatable fighters like him. I agree with him--on the former point at least--so the little ones are frolicking in the fields outside the inner walls today. It keeps them out of my hair while I fix the midday meal.

Bors and the other knights are here now, gracing us with a short visit before they go off defending and conquering yet again. I pause momentarily, wiping my hands on my skirt, and glance over to where Bors is having an uproarious conversation with Gawain and Galahad. As if he senses my eyes on him, Bors turns and lumbers over to me.

"Is that food done yet, Vanora?" He throws a glance towards the cooking area, managing to look both ravenous and plaintive at the same time. "My stomach's growlin' so loud I'm surprised you haven't 'eard it from here."

"As if I could hear anything over you shouting and carrying on," I retort, pretending to be annoyed with him. "None of that, now!" I cry as he attempts to take a peek at the meal. "It'll be ready when it's ready. Go on, now, I'm going to call the children in, and then we can eat."

He ambles off, muttering under his breath. I choose not to listen and instead march briskly outside to collect my children. I have instructed them to stay close to the walls, and as I walk outside and automatically begin to count heads, I am pleased to see that they obeyed my command. Most of them.

A slight frown crosses my face as I count again, stopping at six. My youngest one is missing. I firmly squash the involuntary dash of a mother's panic, and instead clap my hands sharply and raise my voice.

"Children! Come in, it's time to eat!"

If there's one thing that can tear a child away from his playtime, it's the promise of food. The little heads swivel towards me, then as one they rise and race in my direction, arms swinging and legs pumping. I let five of them run past me and into the compound, but as the sixth one attempts to run by I reach out and snag his arm. I give it a gentle but firm twist until he's facing me, then I stare down at him disapprovingly.

"Where is your brother?"

He squirms. "I don't know...he was there a minute ago."

I shake his arm. "Didn't I tell you to watch him and make sure he didn't go wanderin' off?"

The brown eyes widen. "I did! I was watchin' him almost the whole time!"

"Almost?" I repeat, sighing. The child opens his mouth--to release a barrage of excuses, no doubt--but I hold up a hand to stop him. "Go on in and eat," I tell him, and he races off with the speed of a hunted hare. He'll get a talking-to later.

Picking up my skirts, I trot out onto the fields and begin searching for my missing offspring. He can't have gone far; his little legs still have much growing to do before they are capable of traveling great distances. I have looked only a few minutes before I pass a cluster of trees and enter a little clearing. Sure enough, the wandering boy is sitting in the grass, playing with some unknown object and laughing happily. I am momentarily surprised to find he is not alone--Lancelot is sprawled on his stomach in front of the boy, head propped up on his hands so that he is eye to eye with the child. For a split second, I am struck by how charming the scene is, but I quickly regain my sanity and stride forward purposefully.

"Machan!" I call. My son jumps slightly and turns to face me, a guilty look on his face if I ever saw one. I reach him and kneel down so I'm looking into his face. "Haven't I ever told you not to go walking off by yourself? You could have gotten lost or hurt!"

I pick him up and swing him onto my hip, with a slight bit of difficulty. He's almost getting too big to be carried. Lancelot, still on the ground, props himself up on one elbow and looks at me, his gaze sliding lazily over my form. I ignore his roving eyes. He's been doing it ever since we first met. It did make me uncomfortable at first, but over the years I've grown accustomed to it. Men--and especially Lancelot--will be men. Indeed, it's almost more of a joke now, except perhaps when Bors is in the vicinity, then it becomes slightly more tense.

"Calling the child by a name again, eh?" Lancelot comments with a knowing grin, and I glare at him. Bors insists that we call the children by numbers instead of names; it's always been a bit of a sore spot between us. Privately, I give the children names anyway. What mother could be satisfied referring to her child by a mere number? I try not to actually call them by their names that often, and especially not in the presence of others. When--and I stress _when,_ not if--Bors and I eventually get married, we will have to give them official names, and Bors might not agree with my choices. But, sometimes they slip out before I can stop myself.

Ignoring Lancelot's question, I level him with what I like to think is my fiercest glower. It has absolutely no effect, so I try a different tactic. "What on earth are you doing out here with my son?"

He raises an infuriating eyebrow at me. "I was off taking a walk, and saw the boy wandering around unattended. I suppose you would rather I had continued on my way and let him keep walking on by himself?"

Machan wriggles around in my arms, distracting me before I can answer. As I try to calm him, I notice he's holding a little figure of a lion, carved in stone. "Where did you get that?" I wonder aloud.

"Oh, that's mine," Lancelot says, hoisting himself to his feet and brushing dry grass off his tunic. "I was letting him play with it."

I take the lion from the boy and look it over. There is nothing particularly special about it. "Did you make it?" I ask.

"No, it was given to me."

"By whom?"

His expression becomes guarded, and I realize I've unknowingly hit a sensitive spot. Shifting the boy on my hip, I mumble a quick apology and hold the lion out to Lancelot.

He steps forward and reaches out as if to take it, but his hand closes over mine instead, and he pulls me towards him. I automatically fix him with my glare again, even as my breath catches in my throat. I am completely faithful to Bors, of course; despite all Lancelot's off-color remarks about the paternity of my children, there has never been anything between us. Nevertheless, I would be lying if I said he was not an attractive man.

His hungry eyes hold mine; a smile plays about his lips. Just as I am about to try to disentangle my hand from his, he abruptly lets me go. I step back a few paces, and realize I am no longer holding the lion.

I resettle Machan on my hip again, and watch Lancelot curiously as he runs his fingers over the little statue. His leer is gone as though it had never been, replaced by a melancholy, almost haunted look. He seems to have forgotten Machan and I are even there, and indeed, I almost feel as though I'm an intruder. I quietly turn to go.

After I've walked a short distance, I set Machan down and tell him to run on ahead to the compound. As he takes off on his chubby little legs, I turn and look back at Lancelot. He has put away the lion and is now looking out over the plains, staring at nothing. I feel an odd twinge of sympathy, an emotion that Lancelot has never evoked in me before. My eyes linger on him for a moment before I turn and walk on, wondering.

_Several years later_

The night is still and sleepy, and washed in pale moonlight. The only sounds I hear are faint: an occasional insect chirp, the rustling of the wind in the trees, the muted murmurs of the few still awake inside the compound. I sit alone outside, leaning against the wall, my head tilted back to stare at the moon.

Ever since my childhood, I've had an odd affinity for the moon in my more sentimental moments. I love to watch it night after night as it changes shape, from thin to full again. I like it best when it is full and perfectly round on a clear night, as it is tonight. It covers the land in its bright light, lending a strange sort of otherworldly peace. And I've always found it oddly comforting.

I don't usually need to be comforted. I pride myself on my strong, no-nonsense attitude. However, I've been with child enough times to know that strange things happen to a woman's emotions when she is expecting. I pull my knees up to my chin, and my legs brush slightly against the bulge in my midsection, which has only recently become visible. I sigh and rub my abdomen absentmindedly. Bors' eighth child will arrive before the year is finished.

_Number eight,_ I think bitterly. _That's all he or she will ever be._

My lament is interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps near the entrance to the compound. I look over, then wish I hadn't. I let my head fall back heavily against the wall, gaining some strange satisfaction from the momentary sting of pain. Lancelot is possibly the one person I want to see least right now. I am not in the mood for his advances.

I look back at the entrance through the corner of my eye, hoping that perhaps he won't see me. It is in vain, of course. His eyesight is far too sharp not to notice my huddled form only a stone's throw away. He walks towards me and I stubbornly refuse to acknowledge his existence.

"Vanora," he says. His voice is oddly quiet, and lacks the sly, suggestive tone it usually carries when he addresses me. Against my better judgment I look up at him. His eyes hold a bit of puzzlement, probably at finding me out here when I should be warming Bors' bed, but more than that, they look tired. Exhausted, actually.

"What are you doing out here this late?" I ask suddenly, before he can ask me. He brings one hand up to his face, passing it over his eyes briefly before he answers. "Sleep has not been forthcoming tonight," he responds, giving me a tight smile that's really more of a grimace, then he turns his head and looks out over the plains. In the moonlight I can see that his jaw is clenched. Apparently I'm not the only one battling demons tonight.

My eyes slide towards his hands, which are just as clenched as his jaw. The moonlight illuminates them enough that I can barely make out what is most likely the source of Lancelot's demons: the little stone lion that he let my son play with a number of years ago. My curiosity piqued, I tilt my head slightly, trying to get a better look at it. This time, however, I know better than to ask about it; I remember how Lancelot's face closed up like a dungeon's door the last time I inquired about the lion's origins.

He turns back towards me, letting out a deep sigh, and I can see that he forces himself to relax, his grip on the lion loosening. He fixes his gaze on my face, and his brows draw together slightly as he notices the tear tracks on my cheeks. "What is it?" he asks, and I am unable tell if he's actually concerned or just curious.

I shake my head and break eye contact, feeling the tears well up again and hating myself for it. Biting my lip, I stare off into the distance, as though some inexplicably fascinating event were taking place and I was straining to see it. I hear movement behind me, then nothing for several minutes, and I dare to hope that he went back into the compound.

I wait several more minutes before I look back in that direction. To my dismay, I see that Lancelot has settled himself against the wall and is simply watching me in silence. I grit my teeth and bite back a sigh of aggravation. The man has an infuriating habit of doing the opposite of whatever I want him to do at a particular moment.

I close my eyes and sigh again, this time in resignation. He obviously has no intention of leaving until he's heard my story, and I suddenly feel too tired to resist.

"Bors and I had an argument," I begin slowly. He makes no response, so I continue. "It's the same old thing. I want to name the children, but he insists it's too complicated and that he'd just forget their names in between visits anyway." I choke back a bitter laugh. "What kind of man cares so little for his children that he won't even name them? That he refers to them by number as if they were animals?" More tears begin to fall, and I attack them angrily with my sleeve. Vaguely I realize how perfectly absurd it is that I'm blurting out my troubles to Lancelot, of all people, but now that I've started it feels strangely satisfying to be able to talk about it, to say it instead of locking it up inside. "I'm so afraid that I've been deceiving myself," I continue. "I've always told myself that once Bors earns his freedom, we'll marry and give the children names, and be a real family. But..." I trail off, then gather my resolve and finish the thought. "I keep envisioning that it doesn't happen. That Bors decides he doesn't want to marry, or---" my throat closes momentarily-- "or finds someone else, and my children are left to forever be known as the nameless bastards."

Lancelot says nothing. What is there for him to say? He can do nothing to solve the problem. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling as drained as I've ever felt. Steadfastly I avoid looking in his direction, but after a moment, to my surprise I feel his hand on my shoulder.

Now I glance at him, wondering if he's going to try to seduce me. But the familiar leer is still absent from his face. Instead he just looks at me, almost expressionless save for a hint of something like compassion in his eyes.

I lean my head back against the wall again, closing my eyes wearily. His hand still rests on my shoulder, its presence as strangely comforting as the moonlight.

We stay like that for an indeterminate amount of time. I'm just beginning to drop into sleep when I feel his hand squeeze my shoulder slightly, then he rises slowly and walks back into the compound. I watch him as he goes.

I linger several more moments before I too return inside, but my thoughts are not so distraught as before. And when I walk into my room and climb in bed next to a snoring Bors, I feel calm instead of angry. Nothing about my situation has changed, but somehow I feel less alone.

_467 AD_

We will go home, we will go home, we will go home across the mountains...

I heave a sigh of frustration and set the ale serving mug down on the table with more force than is necessary. That infernal song has been flitting through my head all day long, and try as I might I cannot purge it from my memory.

Normally, I love the song. I've sung it so many times over the years, I couldn't possibly keep track of them all. The knights all know it by heart, I think, and many of them cherish it as much as I do, if not more. But now...now, it seems wrong. Little singing has been heard lately, and certainly no songs about freedom or home.

The last time I sang that song, it was the night that Bors and his companions had been anticipating for fifteen years. The eve of their freedom. The night their service to Rome would end, and they would receive their long-awaited papers and finally be allowed to go home. It's no wonder that Bors insisted I sing that night.

_Land of bear and land of eagle...land that gave us birth and blessing..._

It has not been long since Bors and the other knights chose to fight with Arthur at Badon Hill instead of beginning the journey home. Compared to the previous fifteen years, the time elapsed since that night should seem like nothing. But instead it drags on like fifteen hundred years. My younger children ask me when they'll see their father again, and I can never give them anything more than vague assurances that he will come soon. The older children, already far too familiar with the harsh realities of war, go about their duties silently, with a dullness in their eyes. They know as well as I do that their father and his companions may never return. Every one of them could have perished at the hands of the Saxons.

- - -

It is now late in the evening, and still the song runs through my head, as though some crafty Saxon--or Roman--deity has placed it there to taunt me. Setting my jaw resolutely, I pay the treacherous song no heed and continue with my work, until I hear the sounds of pounding footsteps and raised voices mingling.

Instantly my tasks are forgotten, and I race towards the wall, hope and dread rising together. Looking out, I see what I have imagined every day since the knights stayed behind to fight the Saxons at Badon Hill. They have returned, and are riding speedily towards the compound.

After what is only minutes but seems like the passing of generations, they are inside the walls, dismounting their horses. In the flurry of activity I see the faces of knights I've known for years, but my mind registers only a vague familiarity with them. Right now, I have eyes only for Bors. When I see him at last, alive and apparently unharmed, the relief that assails me is as intense as anything I've ever felt.

The details of our reunion need not be written here. Suffice it to say that after I have assured myself he is indeed alive, flesh and blood and not merely a vision, I allow myself to look over at the other knights while Bors reacquaints himself with his herd of children.

It is then I realize that among the faces I saw when looking for Bors, two are conspicuously absent. Briskly I send the children back to their rooms--the excitement has roused them from their beds--and when they are gone, I turn to Bors, somehow already knowing but needing to hear it from him anyway.

"Where are Lancelot and Tristan?"

The wide grin that Bors had been wearing slowly fades, replaced by an image of stony grief. "Dead."

I clench my fists and let out a deep, controlled breath as the injustice of it all threatens to overwhelm me. It isn't right. Dagonet's death was horrible enough; his loss affected Bors deeply. To lose two more now is like being slapped in the face by Fate. All three of those men should have been free the night their fifteen years were completed. They should even now be home, across the mountains. We should still be able to witness Dagonet's stony courage and hidden gentleness, Tristan's quiet intensity and enigmatic smile, Lancelot's steadfast loyalty and laughing eyes.

Bors touches my shoulder. "The funeral will be tomorrow," he rumbles. "Tristan will be buried, and Lancelot's body is to be burned, and his ashes given to the wind." I look at him in surprise; I've witnessed enough funerals to know that this is unusual. Seeing the question in my eyes, Bors says in his quiet, gruff manner, "It's what he wanted."

- - -

The next day dawns clear and bright, the sun's rays filtering through the trees that surround the cemetery. It is a horrible day for a funeral; the sunlight seems mocking somehow. The small assembly crowds somberly around the graveyard, eyes drifting to the grass-covered mounds and the swords that crown them.

I stand to one side with Bors and several of our children. Bors tries to calm the cries of the youngest baby, who seems to sense the atmosphere of repressed grief. Machan, now nearly ten years old, stands in front of me, looking on as Arthur lights Lancelot's funeral pyre. He remembers nothing of the day that Lancelot saw him wandering in the woods and let him play with a little chiseled lion. But as I watch the yellow-orange flames consume Lancelot's body, squinting my eyes against the rapidly rising smoke, I allow my mind to drift back in time. I see in my mind's eye his hands clenched around the little stone lion, the sorrow and longing on his face as he looked at it. I wonder now, as I have idly wondered many a time over the past several years, the significance behind that little statue. Who gave it to him, and why it held such importance. Was it simply a reminder of home, or something more? I will never know. And as I stare into the flames, my eyes watering from the smoke, I wonder if the little lion that meant so much to him is with him even now, as his body burns.

I hope it is. 


End file.
